


Threading The Needle

by MiaChia123



Category: Gears of War - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Needle Phobia, Whump, tw needles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26189758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaChia123/pseuds/MiaChia123
Summary: (idiomatic) To find harmony or strike a balance between conflicting forces, interests, etc.Three times Baird avoided his needle phobia. One time he couldn’t.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. Blood Drive

__

_You think this is a drag? Try breathing through a ventilator because none of your buddies knew how to tie a fucking tourniquet.  
_ (Dr. Isabelle Hayman to COG recruit during first aid training.)

**JACINTO CITY COG BARRACKS, EPHYRA: MID HARVEST, 14 A.E.**

****

The voice of Anya Stroud breaks through the loudspeakers after a brief crackle of static. 

****

__

_“All available personnel, please report to Jacinto City Medical Plaza for mandatory blood drive evaluation. I repeat, all available personnel to Jacinto City Medical Plaza for immediate donation eval.”_

__

****

“Wasn’t that supposed to be next week?” asks Dom, scruffing his hair with a towel. He is fresh out of the shower, and before that, fresh out of a bloodbath on Decater Street. It has been a long morning. 

****

“I’m guessing Charlie-One put some strain on their reserves,” Marcus says grimly, rising from his bunk. Charlie Squad had been the first to respond to the emergence on Decater Street not four hours ago, and by the time Delta arrived as backup, their numbers had been significantly reduced.

****

Dom is already halfway out the door. He asks: “Do you think Harris pulled through?” 

****

Charlie Harris was the commanding officer of Charlie Squad (and so affectionately nicknamed “CeCe” by his peers for the coincidence.) The last time Dom had seen him, he was being carried onto a King Raven and rushed off to Jacinto Memorial. They had labeled him T1, which was the highest level of trauma the staff at the hospital could prepare for. 

****

Marcus sidles up next to Dom, not replying, not having to.

****

“Shit,” says Dom, and he shakes his head. He pictures Charlie, too young for any of this, and Charlie’s husband, a mechanic in the motor pool, who’s only a little older. He wonders if anyone has even told David yet. 

****

“Best thing we can do is get to the hospital,” says Marcus. He shoulders on a denim jacket as they walk out of the barracks, the wool collar a pilly mess. Dom feels the mid Autumn air bite his arms almost immediately. They are fifteen city blocks from the hospital. He regrets not grabbing a coat of his own.

****

****

**JACINTO CITY MEDICAL PLAZA, WEST COURTYARD**

****

****

“This was supposed to be next fucking week,” says Damon Baird, shoulders hunched against the cold. He is standing in line along with Marcus, Dom, and Augustus Cole. They met on the way to the hospital, and Baird has been a virtual complaint box ever since. “And what the fuck do they mean by mandatory, anyway? What is this, communist Gorasnia?”

****

“It’s a blood drive, asshole,” Dom snaps. “You’re saving lives, they shouldn’t even have to ask.”

****

“Yeah, like I don’t do that on a routine basis as is,” replies Baird, ignoring Dom’s venom or else actually missing it. He’s looking around, scanning the tents erected at all four corners of the courtyard like they harbor something sinister.

****

“It’s a good cause, baby,” says Cole, nudging Baird’s shoulder with his own. He points at one of the hastily-made banners that hang all over the hospital, and reads it out with bravado. “Give so they can live! I like that, it’s got a good ring.”

****

“You’re oh negative,” Marcus chimes in. “Universal donor.” This said with a sharply admonishing tone, like a parent wondering why his smart kid is pulling C’s and B’s.

****

“I get it,” says Baird. They all move up in line as, yards ahead, a few more people are ushered into one of the tents. “A ton of people want my blood. I should wear a button that says, ‘Ask me about parasitic relationships.”

****

“Are you joking right now?” asks Dom, spinning to face Baird, suddenly furious. He can’t get the image of Charlie out of his head, injured or maybe worse. David, about to get the shittiest news of his life. “Or are you always this much of a heartless prick?”

****

“Oh, I’m usually worse,” replies Baird. He’s stuffed his hands into his pockets, the picture of nonchalance. “On _really_ bad days, I kick puppies and steal the firstborn children off of desolate widows.”

****

Dom glares at him. Marcus swears under his breath tiredly. 

****

“Damon’s about as heartless as a squid,” Cole offers, ever the peacemaker. He cuffs Baird on the ear, not quite gently. “He just never learned to play nice, that’s all.”

****

Dom folds his arms. “You don’t have to apologize for him, Gus.”

****

“I don’t see how this is my problem,” Baird continues, a kid pulling cat tails; unaware that nice things can bite. “If you’re dumb enough to get shot in the first place--”

****

Dom steps forward, and then Marcus is between them. He puts a restraining hand on Dom’s shoulder. He looks at Baird. 

****

“Shut it,” he warns, using that distinctly parental maneuver of lowering his voice instead of raising it. After a handful of seconds, he turns his glare on Dom, adding: “Cool it.”

****

Dom backs up, shaking his head. “Fucking unbelievable,” he mutters. Baird shrugs at him in a lazy sort of way, like things didn’t almost just come to blows. _Sorry not sorry._

****

The line seems to move more slowly after that, as if the universe, sensing their discomfort, decided to prolong it further. Conversion deteriorates into a one-man affair; Cole is wondering out loud if they’ll have refreshments afterward. He seems to be talking to Baird the same way some people talk to pets they’re trying to distract from the vet’s office. Overly cheerful, although that’s a hard quality to spot in Cole. Baird, arms crossed, says absolutely nothing.

****

After five more minutes, the sun disappears behind a thin shawl of clouds. Dom can no longer feel his fingers. He breathes into his cupped palms. His thoughts return to Charlie Harris.  
They had ushered him away so quickly back on Decater Street, Dom hadn’t been able to get a good look. But blood isn’t difficult to spot, even at a distance. And there had been a lot of fucking blood.  
“ _Shit_ ,” he mumbles, and wonders yet again if anyone has notified David Castilla. 

****

“Yeah, _shit_ ,” echoes Baird, bouncing on his heels. Dom closes his eyes. Controls his breathing. Counts to fucking ten. Baird prattles on, clueless: 

****

“This is ridiculous, I have better things to do with my time than freeze my fucking--”

****

He is cut off by the sound of approaching heels of which are attached to an approaching woman. She is very short. Her hair, a shock of white, is pulled into an overly tight bun. She is practically glowing in her pristine lab coat. She is, of course, Dr. Isabelle Hayman, the COG’s surgeon general and acting chief of medicine at Jacinto Memorial Hospital. She has a cigarette dangling off her bottom lip. She is seventy-eight years old.  
“Am I interrupting something particularly fucking meaningful?” she spits, glaring at the group of men like they are so many stray dogs, tearing up her immaculate front lawn. 

****

Cole straightens on instinct, reverting to those grammar school manners reserved for the scariest of old ladies. Dom, for his part, is reminded of an article he read years ago about surviving attacks from the world's most dangerous animals. The gist of it? Don’t make eye contact.  
He studies the ground with renewed vigor.

****

“No ma’am,” Marcus eventually answers, shooting the rest of them with a withering glance. _Cowards_. “Nothing meaningful at all.”

****

“Shocking,” Hayman deadpans. She’s scanning through her clipboard. She takes a drag of her cigarette. 

****

“Made anyone cry today, Doc?” Baird quips, but only because Cole is there; alway the proverbial stack of sandbags between Damon Baird and a literal hurricane. Hayman glares daggers at him.

****

“Surprisingly no, but there’s a first for everything, corporal.” She flips another page. Takes another puff of smoke. She looks back at Baird. “Name?”

****

“Damon Baird,” he replies sullenly. Like he’s been through this before. Like he knows what’s coming. 

****

Hayman finds his name on her clipboard. She says: “You’re oh negative, which means you’re actually useful to me.”

****

Baird bows gratuitously. Hayman ignores it, jutting her chin to the left, indicating a different tent. “With me. You too, sergeant.” This last bit directed at Marcus, who’s also a universal donor.

****

“Glory hallelujah,” Baird mutters. He wriggles out of line. To Dom, he looks a shade paler than a minute ago. 

****

“You good, Baird?” he asks, a smile twitching at the corner of his lip. Baird bristles as he walks off with Marcus.

****

“Never better, asshole,” he grumbles. Dom’s smile broadens.

****

“You know, if you’re good, they’ll give you a lollipop _and_ a sticker!” he calls. Baird doesn’t turn around to retort. 

****

“Hey, leave it, Dominic,” says Cole, and Dom flinches. The full name is obviously a scold, and getting chastised by The Cole Train is like finding out that Santa isn’t real all over again.

****

“What’s his deal, Gus?” he asks gently. Across the courtyard, Marcus and Baird disappear inside the tent. Behind him, Cole sighs.

****

“Let’s just say Baird isn’t a fan of needles,” he says, his voice slow and careful. Dom furrows his brow.

****

“You kidding?” he asks, and then, when Cole doesn’t answer, turns to face him.

****

“Baird’s been shot, Cole. He’s had his head knocked in more times than even _he_ can keep track of. A needle can’t possibly hurt more than—”

****

“It’s not a pain thing,” says Cole. He’s also been watching the other tent, concern painted across his features. Finally, he breaks his gaze to look at Dom. 

****

“Between you and me?” he asks, and Dom nods.

****

“Yeah, of course.”

****

Cole sighs again. “Between you and me, Baird grew up with an interesting family that had some interesting priorities regarding their son.”

****

“Interesting as in?”

****

“Messed the fuck up,” Cole says, and Dom can hear the anger in those words, just barely subdued.

****

“So what happened?” he asks, surprising himself with the amount of concern he can make out in his own voice. He doesn't have to like Baird. By serving together, they're already as good as family. 

****

“Baird wouldn’t talk,” Cole says. He sees the look on Dom’s face and smiles a little. “Surprising, I know. But believe it or not, Damon wasn’t always such a chatterbox.”

****

Dom smirks. Cole continues.

****

“So there he is, four or five years old, and he just clams up. And that’s when his parents decide there’s something fundamentally wrong with him.” He pauses, and then adds: “Guess they couldn't fathom he might just not have anything to say.”

****

Dom stays silent as they move up in line. He’s already putting the pieces together himself. 

****

“So then there’s a doctor involved, and then another doctor, and then a specialist, and then _another_ specialist. And all of them want to run tests, and you get the point.”

****

“For fuck’s sake,” Dom mutters, and all of a sudden, he feels like shit for poking fun at Baird. 

****

“Yeah,” Cole says. He pauses before continuing, like gathering his thoughts after that story is a monumental effort.

****

“Worst part is, they didn’t really care about him. Baird’s parents, I mean. They just didn’t want a son who might ruin their perfect name, their perfect life. Because god forbid you have a kid that’s different, you know?”

****

Dom knew, but he didn’t know; where he came from, kids were raised with the idea that perfection was something for God, not people. And he certainly couldn’t imagine a set of parents who valued his worth over his well-being.

****

In fact, the scariest memory Dom held from his own childhood was from age sixteen, coming home to tell his mom and dad that Maria was pregnant. And that wasn’t even fear so much as it was shame, knowing he had let his family down.  
In turn, his parents had reacted with appropriate levels of disappointment. They lectured Dom, admonished him, and then they worked through it. They helped him plan the wedding. They were there for Benedicto’s birth. For God’s sake, they were his _parents_ , and Dom couldn’t picture a life where those two people who were meant to love you more than anyone else treated you like shit.

****

He thought about it. Boyhood:

****

_Ushered out the back door on summer mornings, a snack in your hand, a kiss on your head. “Home when the street lamps come on, Dominic.”  
Running into the woods behind the house, for all the world your father’s son. Happy without even knowing it. Meeting friends in a place you think is secret but that your brother actually knows all about. Swapping cookies for half a sandwich, wolfing it down; your body growing and expanding and becoming. Running, sweating, falling and ripping a hole in those brand new jeans your mother begged you to keep nice for the school year. She will not be mad.  
Grubby hands pointing out open cuts and gritty scrapes, because what is infection, anyway? Danger exists on the same plane as death when you’re ten, which is to say it doesn’t exist at all. For this reason, you run with pointy objects and you jump from high places. When you’re thirsty, you plunge your hand into the coolest depths of the river, and you pick a stone and you place it on your tongue like communion. You will not ever choke.  
At the end of the day, when swollen constellations of mosquito bites litter your arms, you say goodbye like tomorrow is guaranteed. You head home, and dinner is waiting. By some strange brand of magic you will eventually learn is named motherhood, it is always hot. You say prayers as a family, warm candlelight illuminating a beautiful icon that has hung on the wall for forever.  
You climb into bed, and you’re asleep before hitting the pillow. You have dreams and you have nightmares. In the morning, you remember nothing but the friendly dark of last night’s oblivion._

****

He had always imagined a similar life for Baird; thirteen years old, bone-skinny and unformed. Eleanor and Jocelyn's only kid. Fussed over, driven to piano competitions all over Western Tyrus. Gorasnian tutor on weekends, the brown bread and gummies vitamins, parental hedges against failure. With all their money, he imagined that little Damon probably got whatever the hell he wanted. 

****

But Baird would never talk. Even when Dom opened the topic of childhood—reminiscing in those technicolor anecdotes—he was met with breezy dismissals or else a change of subject.  
And now it all makes a lot more sense.

****

“I feel like an asshole,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. Cole shakes his head.

****

“Baird was out of line,” he says. “But I wanted you to know he didn’t mean those things he said. When he’s scared, he just—”

****

“Spouts off,” Dom finishes, and Cole nods. 

****

And then the loud speakers crackle to life for the second time that day. Anya’s gentle voice, suddenly everywhere.

****

_“Corporal Damon Baird, please report to Colonel Victor Hoffman in CIC. I repeat, Corporal Baird to CIC, ASAP.”_

****

Baird is out of the tent within seconds. His sleeve is still rolled up. He’s taking a tourniquet off his arm. There is an obvious lack of gauze where he would’ve been stuck, which means he dodged a bullet. Or a needle. 

****

“You’re expected back here, Corporal,” Dr. Hayman is barking, trailing him out of the tent with a look of obvious annoyance. “Mandatory attendance.”

****

“Yes ma’am,” Baird says, handing her the tourniquet, and they both know he is lying. He will spend unnecessary hours fixing whatever computer, vehicle, or toaster oven is in need of his assistance. Hours or days, if it keeps him away from the hospital. 

****

“Lucked out this time,” Cole laughs, waving to his friend as he makes his way towards CIC. Baird waves back, smirking.

****

“Son of a bitch,” Dom mutters, but he’s smiling just the same

****


	2. Stitches

_When in doubt, remember the ABC’s of first aid: Airway, breathing, circulation. If any of those are compromised, you’re in trouble. A Bone Coming out of your skin is pretty fucking bad, too._  
(Bernadette Mataki during group field training.)

**ANVIL GATE, KASHKUR, TWO HOURS AFTER THE DISCOVERY OF AZURA: BEGINNING OF BOUNTY, 16 A.E.**

Is it any surprise that she can’t sleep? Of course not. But that doesn’t mean Bernedette Mataki is ready to toss and turn for the rest of the night. In fact, fuck that idea entirely.

She sits up in bed, mindful of the body next to her. She tells herself not to be jealous that said body--Victor Hoffman--was able to drift off. He, at least, is sleeping soundly.

“How do you do it?” she asks in the dark, looking at Vic, studying all the little scars across the back of his head. All the little things that should’ve killed him but didn’t manage.Thankfully. Mercifully.

She throws the covers off her legs. Mac, darling boy, is awake at her feet. She knows this because when she stirs, so does he. Ears pricked. Eyes bright. Always on the alert, that one. He jumps off the bed, and stares at Bernie expectantly.

“I’m okay,” she mutters, maybe lying, maybe not. It’s been a long day. Fuck, it’s been a long sixty years. In this moment, it’s almost as if she can feel every ache, every cramp, everywhere. Stretching isn’t what it used to be. Now that she’s an old and brittle rubber band, she might just snap at any given time.

Mac whines from his place on the floor, an impatient and largely human sound.

“Oh, alright,” Bernie mollifies, only pretending to be annoyed. It’s not, afterall, as if she had been sleeping.

*******

She finds Baird in the garage, rummaging through a toolbox.

And no, she’s not surprised that he’s awake as well. When you live with someone, you learn about all the trivial things that make them up, such as likes and dislikes, or sleeping habits. For as long as Bernie’s known him, Baird has always been a night owl. A lot of people on Vectes had been jealous about his lack of nightmares until they learned about his insomnia. That shut them up real quick.

“So what, are you one of those old people with crippling restlessness now?” Baird asks, not turning around. The click of Mac’s nails against concrete is apparently proof enough of Bernie’s presence.

“At least I haven't taken to wearing nightgowns and bunny slippers,” she replies, stifling a yawn.

“Thank god for small fucking favors.”

Bernie smiles at the back of his head. “I missed you too, Blondie.”

Finally, Baird turns around, and for the first time since he and the rest of Delta arrived, she gets a good look at him. She says:

“You know, I thought you’d be tanner, what with living on a cruise ship and all.” In reality, he looks like shit. Fully dressed in the middle of the night, with dark undereye circles. A man of his age has no right looking so tired. 

“I’m the lucky bastard who ended up with his mother’s genes. All fair skin and eczema.” He takes a knee, favoring Mac with a rare pat when the dog approaches. Bernie gestures at the toolbox.

“Something you’re looking to steal?” she asks.

“Super glue.”

“Chipped a nail, did you?”

Baird gets to his feet, shrugging. “Yeah, something like that.”

Bernie doesn’t know what that means, and she doesn’t feel like asking. When it comes to Baird and his projects, all it takes is a single question to get him rambling for hours. And there are so many other things she would like to talk to him about. She whistles at Mac, who’s still sniffing at Baird’s boots.

“No glue that I know of,” she says. “But you’re welcome to look in the outer courtyards with me and Mac. The engineers, dumb sods, they leave stuff lying around all the time.”

Baird looks at her, head at a tilt, biting back a grin. “Granny, is this your way of asking for my company?”

“Don’t fucking push it.”

And then they’re both walking through the courtyards.

*******

They talk about the day. They talk about the year they’ve spent apart. More than once, Baird brings up the lack of radio contact, and the fact that Bernie (unwillingly) broke her promise to stay in touch. She’s learned to read between his lines over the years, enough so to understand, in this moment, that he’s not trying to be mean; this is simply Baird’s way of saying “I really missed you” without actually saying it.

“You could’ve stayed, you know,” he says, shrugging like it wouldn’t have mattered to him either way.

“Yes darling, because you know how much I love the ocean.”

Baird breaks away from her, approaching a workbench in the corner and rifling through its contents. “Hey, you don’t have to make excuses, Bern. Age sucks, I get it.”

She snorts. “What do you know about age, Baird?”

“Nowadays? Feels like I know a lot.”

Bernie finds that she can’t argue with him. Thirty-six might not be old, but when you’ve been fighting for your life on an unforgiving planet for almost half as many years, thirty-six might as well be ninety.

“Any luck?” she asks after a moment, and Baird shakes his head, chucking something on the workbench. He jogs back over, and they continue walking.

“So this place hasn’t been giving you any trouble?” Baird asks, arms crossed over his black tee shirt.

Bernie snorts. “Of course it has. But I can take it.”

_“Right.”_

“You know me, Blondie. Young at heart--”

“--and older in other places.”

She shoves him in the side, laughing. It’s only when her hand comes away, warm and sticky, that the smile drops.

“Baird, what the fuck--”

“I’m fine,” he says, looking at her hand and then down at his stomach with mild surprise. “I didn’t know that it was--”

She cuts him off by lifting his shirt. He stops walking, hands up.

“Workplace harassment.”

“You’re fucking bleeding,” Bernie snaps, examinig the newly revealed square of gauze that is taped to his abdomen, a three inch by three inch patch of red. It is soaked through.

“Yeah, like I said, I thought that that stopped.”

“What happened?” she asks, wiping her hands on her jeans. Although Baird seems okay, her heart doesn’t want to stop pounding.

“So there was this blimp, and--”

She cuts him off with a glare. He shrugs, hands still raised.

“A blimp, I’m serious. Rough landing.”

Bernie sighs, exasperated. “Are you okay?”

“I told you, I’m fine,” replies Baird, rolling his shirt back down as if to prove the point.

Bernie isn’t so convinced, but she’ll have to get the full story out of Vic in the morning. As unbelievable as the whole blimp thing is, she suspects Baird is telling the truth. Delta has been in stranger situations. They’re probably all lucky to be alive.

“Let’s go,” she says, shaking her head, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“Where are we going?” asks Baird, and she can hear the apprehension in his voice. She keeps walking without bothering to reply

*******

They are, of course, in the infirmary, which is mercifully empty. Earlier in the day, Bernie had been worried about running out of supplies, they’d suffered so many casualties. But now, in the earliest hours of morning, everyone has been discharged.

“Take off your shirt,” she says to Baird.

“But what if Hoffman finds out?”

“This isn’t a joke, Baird. I need to know this isn’t something that’s going to kill you.”

“Who said I was joking?” Baird replies, but when Bernie does not smile, he does as he’s told, lifting off his shirt and then the bloody square of gauze. Bernie frowns when she sees it.

“Oh for god’s sake, blondie…”

For how nasty the cut looks, it is only skin deep. Mottled purple bruising surrounds it like a halo. No, this will not kill Damon Baird. But it’s still bleeding.

“You need stitches,” she says.

Baird shakes his head, already reaching for his shirt again.

“Well that’s not happening,” he says, wincing as he pulls it back over his shoulders.

“Don’t be an idiot, if you leave that open you’re asking for infection.”

“Bernie, it’s fine.” He’s walking toward the door.

She grabs his wrist. “Will you just listen to me for one bloody second?”

“I said it’s fucking fine,” he snaps. Now that they’re under fluorescent lighting, Bernie can see the bloodstain, a darker shade of black spreading over his abdomen. She stares at him, this man who has been nothing but sensible and pragmatic in all the years that she’s known him. She stares, and she realizes. She says, softly:

“You really don’t like needles, do you?”

And Baird slumps a little, most of the rigidity leaving his shoulders. “Who says it has anything to do with needles?” he says, but there is no more venom. He crosses his arms. He stares back.

Bernie stays silent until something dawns on her. She looks at him, horrified. “Is this why you were looking for fucking glue?”

“Glue works! It’s quicker, it’s efficient…”

“It’s chemicals that you’re pouring into your skin.”

“And yet here I stand.”

“Tell me you’ve never done that before.”

“Coming from the woman who used literal ants to close up a wound?”

Bernie stays silent, regretting that she ever told him that story--about a stumble in her teens that resulted in the use of army ants as makeshift sutures.

Baird smirks again. “Thought I forgot about that one, didn’t you?”

“It’s an Islander thing,” she says finally. “And a lot safer than glue, I guarantee it.”

“You’re a cavewoman.”

“And you’re still bleeding,” she responds. “And I can’t have you making a mess all over my floors.”

Baird shrugs. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Again, Bernie looks at him, and she knows that it’s not in her heart to enforce this with rank. She understands fear over something small, frustrating and irrational. She can swim. She’s still petrified of water.

“Find Padrick,” she relents. “Tell him I sent you.”

Baird raises his eyebrows. “And he’ll have…?”

She sighs. “Glue. Go before I change my mind.”

Baird cocks his head. “What, no ants?”

She throws a plastic basin at him, and he dodges it on his way out the door. She calls after him to take Mac back to the barracks.

When his footsteps fade, Bernie jumps up on one of the exam tables, glancing at her watch. There are a few more hours before dawn. She falls asleep, and she dreams of ants and glue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that the update took so long! Chapters 3-4 shouldn't take quite so long to post. Thanks for reading!


End file.
